One, Two, Three, Four
by Lex Munro
Summary: Strange hybrid movie-comic-verse. The first four Losers come together. Genfic. Warnings: language, violence, military geekery, and some Burn Notice cameo. Continues with fluffy C/J slash in Nobody Told Me He Could Fly.
1. Salute

a little prequel on the meeting of Loser #1 and Loser #2.

**warnings:** welcome to my bastardized incomprehensible com-movie-verse. rampant military terminology. language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus bulls***, f***, and g**damn).

**pairing:** none/gen.

**timeline:** several years pre-movie/pre-comic.

**disclaimer:** the Losers belong to DC/Vertigo.

**notes:** 1) so. glad i ran this by my intern for beta-reading, because i often forget how big a military geek i am. glossary of military terms after the notes. 2) moving from enlisted to commissioned means an increase in pay and privileges, among other things. 3) you really shouldn't change the words of your recitation while doing CAPE. but when you've been doing push-ups for a long time, you get really bored. 4) when going somewhere as a unit, recruits almost always go in formation. when in formation, you are expected to 'show military bearing'—stand at attention (or parade rest if given permission), no laughing, smiling, etc., no speaking unless addressing the drill sergeant.

**CO** = commanding officer.  
><strong>Big Chicken Dinner<strong> = BCD, Bad Conduct Discharge (kicked out of the military for bad behavior, not quite as bad on the record as a dishonorable discharge).  
><strong>kicked<strong> = dishonorably discharged.  
><strong>SIC<strong> = Second in Command, also abbreviated 2IC.  
><strong>oak leaves<strong> = the pins that signify the ranks of major (gold leaves) and lieutenant colonel (silver leaves).  
><strong>brass<strong> = higher-ups (also used in police forces), usually referring specifically to the guys in charge of a base, but can also refer to generals, the chiefs of staff, or the directors of some agencies (like the CIA and FBI).  
><strong>deactivation<strong> = the process of dismantling a unit through discharge or transfer.  
><strong>Q<strong> = short for Q-Course, the Army Special Forces Qualification Course.  
><strong>sandbox<strong> = generic term for desert areas where the armed forces are currently deployed.  
><strong>attend<strong> = come to attention for.  
><strong>mess<strong> = mess hall, where military personnel eat. on some bases, recruits have their own mess.  
><strong>stripes<strong> = rank insignia for enlisted personnel.  
><strong>CAPE<strong> = Corrective Action: Physical Exercise. usually on-the-spot, and typically consists of punitive push-ups. sometimes accompanied by recitation of a lesson to be learned (such as doing sit-ups while repeating "i will not refer to [mustached CO] as 'Magnum'").  
><strong>bust<strong> = to demote a non-commissioned officer (usually to private).  
><strong>bobtail<strong> = dishonorable discharge.  
><strong>cherry<strong> = new guy. more specifically, a soldier who's never been deployed (or a sailor who's never shipped out).  
><strong>Section Eight<strong> = discharge for psychological reasons (such as a complete nervous breakdown or a psychotic episode).  
><strong>green beret<strong> = Army special forces member (because of their headgear).  
><strong>FNG<strong> = fuckin' new guy. much like fraternity pledges, they tend to be mildly abused by their superiors, frequently being given unpleasant duties or sent to fetch nonexistent equipment.

* * *

><p><strong>Salute<strong>

Sergeant William Roque did not get along with people.

He felt this was simply a matter of 'people' in general being stupid. Or arrogant. Or loud. Or whiny. But mostly, _yeah_, stupid.

On the rare occasion that he found people who weren't fucking morons with asses where their brains should be, he stuck by them.

And if Roque decided it was worth sticking by someone, he'd stick like fucking _tar_. Tar with knives and guns and a temper bad enough to scare a drill sergeant. Peters (his last CO) had told him it was probably a miracle that his sticky attitude hadn't gotten him a Big Chicken Dinner.

Roque had to agree, really.

The downside was that he'd occasionally decide to stick by a guy who was too fucking noble for anybody's good. That was why Peters was swallowing demotion and 'early retirement' to keep the survivors of his unit from being kicked.

It was a shame. A goddamn shame. Because Roque had liked Peters. He was a decent, no-bullshit, no-I-in-team kinda guy—the kind that made Roque proud to be in the Army. He was also a no-women-and-children kinda guy, and sticking with him through that (against an order to withdraw) was what had gotten them into trouble.

With Peters gone, Roque was on his fourth CO in three years. Anderson, the only other survivor from their unit, was also a sergeant, but junior to Roque by eight months. If their new CO didn't bring in somebody higher, it put Roque in the novel position of playing SIC.

A sergeant, and SIC. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about that (other than weird, since he was used to having a lieutenant around to do the job).

"How's the leg?" he asked Anderson as he settled onto his bunk.

"Still fuckin' broken," Anderson grunted. "This stupid goddamn cast—I feel like a fuckin' invalid."

They sat in silence for a time.

Neither one of them spoke about Peters, or their dead comrades, or the whorehouse that'd been aflame when they broke down the door and ran inside. Neither of them mentioned the smell, the screaming, the fact that burning alive was probably the nastiest way to go.

After that disaster (and all the other instances of insubordination on his record), Roque wasn't that surprised to see Major Clay appear in the door of their barracks.

"Good afternoon, sir!" Anderson said, sitting up and saluting.

Roque didn't bother. Etiquette said he should've—they were in uniform and they were in the barracks, so he should at least stand to attention for the sake of the oak leaves, if not the man wearing them. He didn't feel like it.

They might've been signed over to the King of the Losers, but the bastard would have to _earn_ Roque's salute after what the brass had done to Peters.

"Good afternoon, sergeants," Clay replied. "Pack up; your unit's been deactivated. Neal and Greene just passed Q—you're with them now. As soon as Anderson's cleared for duty, we're shipping out to give the new kids a tour of the sandbox."

"Aw, man…" muttered Anderson.

Roque just sneered. He might have to live with the kids, but he didn't have to like them, and he didn't have to treat them like they mattered—because they didn't, not the way real soldiers mattered, not the way Peters mattered…let them spill some of their blood for something more than money or a woman, and then he'd think about it.

"And Roque?" Clay said as he turned to leave.

He glanced over, but didn't say anything.

"While on base and in uniform, you will show the respect and acknowledgment proper to those who outrank you. The next time you fail to even attend a superior officer upon his entering proximity, I will have you out in front of the recruits' mess doing CAPE in your stripes until every one of those little pissants has seen and laughed at you."

Roque snorted. Like he'd never had to put up with bullshit humiliation tactics before…

"And the time after that, I'll punch you in the face."

It might be funny to see him try.

"After strike three, I'll bust you so hard your stripes'll still be wondering what the fuck happened when they hit the ground. Got it?"

Grudgingly, Roque decided that the man might be worth a little respect. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Peters seemed to think you had it in you to earn yourself a commission, and I'd like to believe him. But you better get your head back in the game, or he saved your ass from that bobtail for nothing."

And he left.

Just left.

Roque gaped after him.

Because the fucker was _right_.

Four days later, Roque was in front of the recruits' mess, doing pushups in his stripes and reciting, "I will pay proper salute to my commanding officer while out-of-doors, regardless of my personal opinion of his mental acuity, even while administering vigorous physical correction of a cherry's attitude."

A recruit snickered as his formation went past, and Roque couldn't supress a smirk when the drill sergeant called a halt (fuckers had ears like a damn lynx, always knew who'd been muttering or laughing).

"I will pay proper salute to my commanding officer while out-of-doors…" Roque muttered, watching the only source of amusement he was likely to get all day. "…regardless of how strongly I feel he should be riding the short bus, even if I am otherwise occupied in demonstrating the progress of my Section Eight to a bigmouth newbie."

The drill sergeant drew level with the snickering recruit and stepped up into his personal space to shout in his ear (as all good drill sergeants should, in Roque's opinion). "Why were you laughing at the sergeant, maggot?" demanded the drill sergeant. "Don't you know what a cherry is?"

"No, Drill Sergeant!"

"It's a wet-behind-the-ears little battlefield-virgin, only a half-step up from you pathetic pukes! That man is a green beret; he could eat you for breakfast and forget to spit out the bones!"

"I stand corrected, Drill Sergeant!" the kid yelped.

"Since you find CAPE so amusing, you may join the sergeant for the next twenty before you fetch your chow, you miserable little toothpick!"

"Thank you, Drill Sergeant!"

Roque smirked at the hapless recruit (who was wisely keeping his head down and doing his twenty push-ups) and went back to reciting his lesson. "I will pay proper salute to my commanding officer while out-of-doors, regardless of what a dumb fucker I believe he is, even if I am in the process of beating the stupid out of an arrogant dumbfuck FNG."

**.End.**


	2. King of the Losers

OMG moar genfic. a little prequel on gaining Loser #3.

**warnings:** welcome back to my bastardized incomprehensible com-movie-verse. rampant military terminology (is that a warning?). language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus one use of bulls***).

**pairing:** none/gen.

**timeline:** several years pre-movie/pre-comic.

**disclaimer:** the Losers belong to DC/Vertigo.

**notes:** 1) again, glossary of military terms after the notes. 2) the CIA does, in fact, recruit a hefty percentage of its field operatives from Special Forces units, notably Army Rangers and SEAL. 3) Bragg = Fort Bragg, headquarters for Army Airborne and Army Special Forces. 4) usually, you have to be 20 to apply to join Army Special Forces. however, a special order from a guy at the right level can get around age requirements pretty easily, provided the subject isn't a minor. 5) the response to the question "aren't you only supposed to salute outdoors?" is "it's usually best to err on the side of courtesy, except in the case of the Marines, who only salute when covered (wearing a hat)." an Army recruit, when entering the office of a major, would probably not get in trouble for saluting, especially when meeting the major for the first time.

**wash-out** = someone who fails a training course.  
><strong>the Company<strong> = the CIA. if military personnel say something's "Company-funded" or "Company-backed," they usually mean that the CIA is paying for whatever-it-is.  
><strong>Delta<strong> = Delta Force, the top badasses of Army Special Forces. super-hush-hush, usually dressed to blend in with civilians. they could tell you that they eat bad guys for breakfast, lunch, and dinner...but then they'd have to kill you. seriously, these guys are like something out of a Tom Clancy novel.  
><strong>Swick<strong> = Special Warfare Center (and School), the training and research center for psychological warfare. also based at Fort Bragg.  
><strong>BCT<strong> = Basic Combat Training, part of Army Basic Training.  
><strong>AIT<strong> = Advanced Individual Training, the part of Army Basic Training that is oriented to an individual's specialization (communications, medical, engineering, etc.)  
><strong>OSUT<strong> = One Station Unit Training, a mash-up of BCT and AIT designed for X-Rays (Special Forces candidates with no prior military service).  
><strong>cover<strong> = military hat. should be removed indoors and held at the side.  
><strong>SEAL<strong> = Sea, Air, and Land; the Navy's primary special operations force. their qualification and training process is notoriously rigorous and yields the Swiss Army Knife of special forces operatives. they have a reputation for being some of the best snipers in the world (seriously; sniping from a boat? not easy!).  
><strong>Q-Course<strong> = the Army Special Forces Qualification Course, consisting of four phases of training and assessment. it takes about a year, unless you're going into Medical (which takes another 32 weeks).

* * *

><p><strong>King of the Losers<strong>

Major Franklin Clay had a reputation for taking insubordinate misfits and turning them into productive members of the military. He also had a reputation for recognizing flashes of brilliance that other officers overlooked. The two were certainly related; the simple fact was that a lot of bright, talented kids didn't deal well with military discipline. They got angry, they got rebellious, they got stir-crazy. But if they could be whipped into shape, they made good Special Forces, and good Special Forces made great Company assets. Hell, a quarter of the recruits he'd plucked from the dirt had turned Delta.

In short, Clay had a reputation for turning would-be wash-outs into some of the finest intelligence operatives in the world.

The other officers at Bragg called him all kinds of half-awed, half-mocking things (behind his back, of course). Grunt-Whisperer. Spook-Sitter. King of the Losers.

So he was used to being stealthily approached by haggard drill sergeants. Nobody liked admitting he couldn't handle some punk kid, but these men were Swick and Special Forces, and had long since learned to show their problem-children to Clay before resorting to more aggressive tactics. It was better that way, both for the kids and for the Army. Why waste a potential resource, after all?

But the recruit standing just outside the window didn't look like a typical troublemaker. Hispanic, just under six feet tall, whip-thin even though he had to have been through the BCT portion of OSUT by now. He was tidy and ordered, and standing at firm, unwavering attention—almost more like a Marine Corps recruit than an Army one.

The kid's name was Alvarez, but everyone called him Cougar. The sergeant failed to elaborate, and Clay didn't ask him to.

"For once, Sergeant, I'm not sure I see the problem," Clay said.

"Permission to speak candidly, sir?"

"Please do."

The drill sergeant fidgeted slightly with his cover and glanced toward the recruit. "I've never seen anything like him, Major. Never says a word, follows orders to the letter, exceeds all physical requirements…works with anybody and everybody, pulling twice his weight in unit exercises—literally, on at least one occasion. At first, I thought they were nuts making a young kid like that an X-Ray, but by the end of last week, I saw that I got nothing left to teach him. Now, normally I'd grin and bear it, use him for a good example…"

Clay shook his head. "He's too young."

"Yes, sir. Seeing a kid his age doing so well in the program is hell on unit morale, especially when none of 'em have prior service. You see my problem, sir. Can't do a damn thing with him, but, by God, he can shoot the wings off a gnat from a moving vehicle."

Clay eyed the skinny kid standing out in the hot sun. "How old _is_ he?"

"Couple months shy of nineteen, but the special orders were all in proper order, sir."

"If he shoots like you say, it's no wonder they want him X-Rayed in," Clay noted. "The Company can get a lot of working years out of Special Forces if they shove 'em in the program as soon as humanly possible." He sighed. After a while, he nodded. "Give him to me, I'll take care of it."

The sergeant let out the breath he'd been holding and pulled a folded piece of paper out of a jacket pocket. "Hoped you'd say that, Major. All it needs is your signature."

Clay grinned wryly at the transfer orders and signed them. "Go ahead and send him in."

The drill sergeant gratefully saluted and left. A moment later, Clay spied him outside the window, informing the recruit of his reassignment. A moment more, and the kid was waiting outside Clay's open door.

"You may enter," Clay said. He watched attentively while his latest foundling walked with swift, exact strides to stand at attention directly in front of Clay's desk and salute. "Good afternoon," he acknowledged, and waited for the salute to drop. "What's your name, recruit?"

The kid said nothing.

"Don't you like me, recruit?" Clay asked, keeping his tone light. "I asked for your name."

Dark, clever eyes flicked down toward the nametag on the kid's duffel.

Clay smiled. "Good. That's right, it sounds like a bullshit order, since I can read just fine for myself. Assuming that's your gear, of course. And your drill sergeant wouldn't have handed you over without telling me your name. But I wanna know what to call you besides 'kid,' 'recruit,' and 'pain in the ass.'"

And he wanted to know how the kid would answer the question. There was a lot of information to be gained from the way a person introduced himself.

"Cougar," the kid answered. Belatedly, he tacked on, "Sir."

"Well, Cougar, you're my responsibility now. Can you really shoot the wings off a gnat from a moving vehicle?"

Cougar shook his head.

Leaning back in his chair, Clay just kept smiling. "Wanna learn how?"

Sudden hunger lit up the kid's face, and he nodded eagerly.

Clay knew he'd catch hell for it; knew that Roque and the rest of the unit would bitch unceasingly; knew that no matter how many favors the man owed him, Axe was not going to be happy to be saddled with an Army kid who thought he had what it took to survive SEAL sniper school.

He also knew that it was all going to be worth it, if this kid who was too talented and determined for OSUT could squeeze in some special training before he rejoined his peers for the Q-Course.

**.End.**


	3. Asset

more prequel genfic. i have officially run off to play in my own bizarre world again. you know how i get. this time, we get to see Cougar's first Black Op for the CIA.

**warnings:** well, we're still in my bastardized incomprehensible com-movie-verse, but now it has blatant Burn Notice crossover. military and spy jargon. contains violence and organized crime. language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus f*** and some naughty Spanish words).

**pairing:** none/gen.

**timeline:** several years pre-movie/pre-comic (let's call it about two years after **King of the Losers**).

**disclaimer:** the Losers belong to DC/Vertigo.

**notes:** 1)italic is spanish, bold is emphasis. translations by MerianMoriarty, who is the one who called Panamanian "a fucking ghastly mangling of Spanish." 2) Bragg = Fort Bragg, headquarters for Army Airborne and Army Special Forces. 3) the M9 is a Beretta 9mm pistol that's probably the most widely-used by military and police worldwide. it's extremely lightweight and reliable. 4) mestizo is an ethnic mix of central-american-native and european spanish. 5) fantasy artist Frank Frazetta is famous for painting very curvy women. 6) training exercises are great for teaching you how to climb down a building and shoot targets through a window, but they can't really do much to prepare you for the psychological effects of being in real danger and blowing somebody's brains out.

**Spanish**  
>"¿Esé ahuevao?" (Panamanian) = "this jackass?" normally, the word would be spelled "ahuevado."<br>"Tú me estás jodieno." (Panamanian) = "you're f***ing with me" / "you're f***ing kidding." normally, the word is spelled "jodiendo."  
>"carajo" = "ballsbollocks", a general negative interjection.  
>"capo" = the "don" of a spanish cartel.<br>"de puta madre" = "motherf***er (idiomatic)."  
>"gringo" = "foreigner." often used derisively, but isn't actually a derogatory term.<br>"¡Bello!" = literally "handsome!", pretty much means "ooh, he's hot!"

**Black Op** = super-duper-top-secret special mission, usually not even acknowledged by the organization running it. details are almost never kept on record, and are always highly classified.  
><strong>operator<strong> = someone working on a spec ops mission.  
><strong>handler<strong> = the agent coordinating a special operation. some CIA field agents work with one handler more than others.  
><strong>asset<strong> = in the context of a special op, an 'asset' is an agent with especially pertinent skills or information.  
><strong>breach<strong> = to enter a room aggressively (usually with explosives).  
><strong>basic<strong> = armed forces basic training.  
><strong>hide<strong> = a stakeout position for a sniper.  
><strong>lojack<strong> = fit with some variety of tracking or positioning device, usually to counteract theft.  
><strong>GPS<strong> = global positioning satellite (and the devices that use them). a means of tracking coordinates electronically.  
><strong>oh-eight-hundred<strong> = 0800, eight o'clock in military time.  
><strong>SF<strong> = special forces.  
><strong>multi-purpose ammunition<strong> = ammunition that includes incendiary and explosive stages.  
><strong>FNG<strong> = fuckin' new guy (n00b).  
><strong>SEAL<strong> = Sea, Air, and Land; the Navy's primary special operations force. their qualification and training process is notoriously rigorous and yields the Swiss Army Knife of special forces operatives. they have a reputation for being some of the best snipers in the world (seriously; sniping from a boat? not easy!).  
><strong>Q-Course<strong> = the Army Special Forces Qualification Course, consisting of four phases of training and assessment. it takes about a year, unless you're going into Medical (which takes another 32 weeks).  
><strong>mag<strong> = short for magazine; ammo clip.  
><strong>the Company<strong> = the CIA. if military personnel say something's "Company-funded" or "Company-backed," they usually mean that the CIA is paying for whatever-it-is.  
><strong>sanitize (or sterilize)<strong> = remove all evidence from (usually by use of fire or explosives).  
><strong>casing<strong> = the empty metal shell of a bullet that's been fired. has certain distinguishing features that tell the make and manufacture of the bullet, and can be used forensically to match certain characteristics of a gun's firing pin.

* * *

><p><strong>Asset<strong>

Cougar tried not to be nervous, but it was hard when he was introduced to an operator and a handler and told that the fate of the free world probably depended on the success of their mission. 'Welcome to Panama—by the way, if you screw up, organized crime will conquer the world.'

Before he left Bragg, Clay had told him that he'd hear that kind of talk, that it was boilerplate for Black Ops assignments, and he shouldn't feel like it was any more or less important than any other mission. And then Clay had handed him a fucking **fifteen page long** nondisclosure agreement that included a description of his alibi (the CIA decided that he was sightseeing in Barcelona).

"I hear good things, Alvarez," said the mission handler. "You come very highly recommended. This is your asset for the mission: Westen. His cover is an American arms-smuggler. You are to provide transport overwatch and long-range cover; if absolutely necessary, your pack has the proper gear for a rappel-and-breach entry."

Cougar frowned. It sounded an awful lot like the handler expected Westen to get caught and interrogated.

Westen had a dull smile frozen on his face, like he couldn't believe his life depended on some kid who looked fresh out of Basic (Cougar knew just how young he looked; he'd have to find some way to fix that, because it was getting annoying).

The handler slapped Cougar on the back (he probably thought it was reassuring, but he almost startled Cougar into breaking his arm). "Everybody's scared the first time, Alvarez. Just keep your head on straight and bring the asset back alive." And he got back on the civilian helicopter and left.

"First time," Westen echoed with blatantly feigned enthusiasm. "Not 'first time **in the field**,' I hope."

Cougar shook his head.

"Oh, good."

Cougar shrugged.

"…You don't talk much, do you?"

He shook his head again.

"That works out, since it's a radio-free op. You can read lips, though?"

He nodded.

"Good. I'm Michael, by the way."

Warily, Cougar shook the asset's hand. "Cougar."

Westen blinked. "Oh…kay. Listen, I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself pretty well, Cougar, so I need you to sit back and not do anything stupid. Use your best judgment covering me on the way to the meet, but once I'm there you will fire if and only if I give the signal—got it?"

Cougar nodded once, sharply.

"Good. Get to your hide. If you lose sight of me tomorrow, my phone is lojacked to show my position on your GPS. I hit the road at oh-eight-hundred, and your skinny ass had better be in position." And Westen headed for the car waiting thirty feet away.

"Hey, what's the signal?"

Westen paused and glanced back. "I'll give you a nod and three-count. So keep your eyes on my hands—or my feet if I'm tied up."

He frowned and quelled his sense of confusion. Clay's reputation was riding on this op. If the handler and the operator both acted like being restrained and requiring rescue was an expected deviation, he'd go along with it. For all he knew, all Black Ops were run that way (ass-backward as it might seem).

"I mean it, kid," Westen said, pointing. "I don't expect to need you **at all** tomorrow, so don't get trigger-happy."

And then Westen was driving away, and Cougar was looking between his map and his GPS to figure out how the hell to get where he was going without looking too suspicious. He was in civilian clothes, and his rifle was stowed (disassembled) in a backpack, and at least he spoke the language…but that didn't mean getting into the heart of a cartel-owned district was going to be safe or easy.

Once he'd visually identified his post for the operation, he started walking.

Axe always said (and the SF instructors had agreed, using slightly different words) that blending in was a grift, and that the key to any grift was confidence. Look and act like you have every right to be there, and most people will never question it. So Cougar kept his eyes forward, ignored the itching desire to scan the nearby roofs for enemy snipers. It made no sense, but he felt like everyone was staring, like every street vendor was hiding a gun under the counter, like he was deep in enemy territory just waiting to be spotted and gunned down.

Despite his paranoia, he made it to the target building unharassed. Then it was just a matter of vaulting from a dumpster up to the lowest level of the fire escape, and then a long and tedious climb to the roof forty floors up. Good thing it was an older part of the city.

The first thing he did was to check (and booby-trap) the roof-access stairwell. After that, he established his orientation and sight-lines. Once he'd changed into his gear and put his rifle back together, he settled in for the night.

Instinct and routine had him awake by five. He checked his rifle again, cleared all the nearby roofs, ranged his scope. Knowing he would need the energy, he forced himself to eat a protein bar.

It was a quarter to nine when he spotted Westen's car en route.

He watched carefully for suspicious cars, for men who might be armed, for the subtle motions that broadcasted an attack, but none came. It took almost ten minutes to get through a mile of morning commuter traffic. When the car stopped, Cougar switched the magnification on his scope, swapped out ammo types, and shifted to a firing position facing the location of the meet.

Between the touristy tropical-print shirt and the Bermuda shorts (with an M9 tucked sloppily into the back), Westen certainly looked like some arrogant American gun-runner.

As might be expected, Cougar lost visual contact when Westen entered the lobby of the target building. Five minutes later, the spy exited the elevator on the floor where the meet was to take place. He flirted with the secretary—some curvy mestizo girl who looked like something out of a Frazetta painting—and made broad, cheerful gestures when a pair of bulky enforcers appeared and beckoned him to follow.

There was some conversation at the door of the target office (he couldn't see what Westen said, but one of the enforcers said, "Shut up and wait here."), and then the paired thugs left and shut the door.

Westen nonchalantly sidled up behind the desk and plugged something into the computer. After a moment of typing, he unplugged the little thing and hooked it up to his phone instead. No sooner had he stowed both in his pocket than the paired thugs from before came back, flanking a more important-looking man in a bad suit.

Some people might find this part—the patient, alert waiting—to be tedious, but Cougar had always found it relaxing. The waiting let him slow down his breathing and focus on the air around him. No wind today, and mild humidity. A straight shot. It was the best kind of day for sniping.

They were talking. (You're Jones?) The man in the suit looked at his companions and gestured with a smirk. (¿_Esé ahuevao_? _Tú me estás jodieno_.) The thugs chuckled and shook their heads. He paced a circle around Westen, who turned to follow him. (—looking forward to meeting your boss. This contract'll buy my kids a new pool; y'know, the swanky in-ground kind.) Westen slipped his hands into his pockets and frowned as the suited man said something; maybe the conversation wasn't going the way he'd hoped it would. (Well, look, I mean, if you guys don't have the bank to make a big purchase right away, we can work out a payment plan. Start small, build up.)

Suddenly, the guy in the suit was angry, shouting…but his back was to the window, so Cougar couldn't tell what he was saying. Westen was trying to play it off with a shrug and a grin (Hey, was it something I said?). He got halfway through a recommendation to a relaxing day-spa when the shouting guy socked him in the gut.

There was a brief scuffle—Westen was pretty impressive in a fistfight—that ended when one of the thugs grabbed Westen's sidearm and hit him in the temple with it.

Still, even when Westen had blinked away the haze of the strike, he didn't give the signal. (No need for that, fellas.) The two of them hoisted him back to his feet and started hauling him toward the door. (Hey, let's just forget this whole thing. That's okay, I know my way out. No, really.)

And then they turned a corner into the hallway.

He couldn't see them. He panned his scope across the whole floor—no sign of Westen.

"_Carajo_…" he sighed, and started eyeing the adjacent floors.

A minor commotion drew his attention downward, where the two thugs were dragging Westen across the granite-paved plaza while the third (the shouting man from before) yelled something; most of what he said was lost over the distance, but Cougar made out the word '_capo_.'

There was no way to be certain, but he thought he saw Westen give the signal.

By the time Cougar realized how stupid he'd been not to move his weapon with his line of sight (fucking amateur mistake), they were in his building.

"_De puta madre_," Cougar snarled under his breath.

Should he assume this was something else Westen and their handler had expected?

Should he risk blowing the op for no reason?

Clay would've said it was worth blowing the op to save a life, and the handler **had** told him to bring Westen back alive…

He pulled out his GPS and punched up Westen's phone. While he waited for the cartel thugs to get settled at whatever venue they'd be using for interrogation, he set up his rappelling gear. With any luck, they'd pick a room with a window; otherwise, he'd have to breach nearby and risk involving civilians.

They finally held steady two feet northeast of him (and some number of floors below). The phone did, anyway.

Cougar hoped he was doing the right thing. And he hoped like **hell** he wouldn't fuck up.

He planted his anchor, crossed himself, and jumped the rail.

He knew he shouldn't be nervous…he'd trained for this…just a window breach on hostage-takers… But it was Clay's reputation on the line. The Company had asked for a sniper, and Clay had put him forth as the right man for the mission.

Eight floors of quick-but-cautious head-first rappelling later, he caught sight of a man with a gun leaning against the window. There'd been three men with Westen when they dragged him across the plaza separating the two buildings. There was probably at least one more, someone to call the shots on the interrogation—maybe even the _capo_.

Taking a deep breath, he readied his rifle and dropped the last eight feet.

It was exactly like training. It was nothing like training.

Five figures, identified in an instant as three armed, one tied, one leaning in to question or threaten. Three shots. Four dead bodies (the leaning man's head lined up nicely with another man's heart and lung). A messy spray of crimson all over the walls.

Ten seconds later, he was through the window and cutting Westen loose. His arm ached from firing one-handed.

"Nice save. I owe you one."

Cougar snorted, shivering with adrenaline. "What the hell happened?"

"They may have seen through my cover," Westen groaned.

"May have?"

"Yeah, well, I only know about five words of Spanish, so your guess is as good as mine."

Cougar stared. "You—they sent you here to—and you don't even—" He trailed off, lacking the words to properly convey his shock and dismay.

Nevermind the minor fact that Panamanian was a fucking ghastly mangling of Spanish to begin with. Hell, Cougar'd been speaking Spanish all his life and he could barely follow Panamanian sometimes.

The older man shrugged. "Shouldn't have mattered, since my cover was one hundred percent _gringo_. The point was that I know enough about the Armenians they've been trying to buy from. Whatever got them pissed off, they slapped me around a little and dragged me over here. Four dead bodies **definitely** blows my cover, but I managed to get what I was after first, so we're good to go. Get back to the roof, make sure nobody kills me on my way to the car. Then clean up your gear and rendezvous at ten."

Once he was back on the roof, he paused to swap ammo again. Two black cars tried to pursue as Westen peeled out, but all it took was one multi-purpose round each to send them careening into the parked cars on either side of the street. When Westen was out of sight, Cougar dismantled his rifle and changed out of his gear.

Getting back to the rendezvous was a blur of paranoia and twitchy reflexes (and the irrational suspicion that every flirtatious girl he passed was waiting for a chance to put a bullet in his back, that every giggle of '¡_Bello_!' was a preamble to murder).

Westen was calling for a pickup when Cougar arrived at the rendezvous.

"Yes, Mark, now would be nice," Westen drawled. "The locals are getting decidedly unfriendly. Yes. Right. Sounds good." He hung up his phone and slipped it back into his pocket.

Cougar hoped he didn't look like a complete FNG, but his knees were still unsteady and he was sure his hands would shake if he unclenched them from around the strap of his backpack and **god** he was hungry but the thought of food made his stomach do alarming flips.

Westen gave him a long look. "Pretty damn different from a battlefield, isn't it?"

He nodded.

"Jesus, you look young… If I didn't know better, I'd say you were fresh outta high school. Gotta do something about that."

He gave a helpless shrug, and Westen grinned.

"Grow your hair out, cultivate some scruff so you look at least twenty, if not your actual age. Maybe try a hat."

Cougar didn't bother to tell Westen that he **was** twenty.

"Saw the cars in the rear-view. Those, plus four-for-three upside-down… Who taught you to shoot like that?"

"SEAL named Axe," he said, and it was true. He'd been good before, but training with Axe had made him better, had given him an edge when he got back to Bragg for the Q-Course.

The name seemed to pleasantly surprise Westen. "Axe? **Sam** Axe?"

Cougar nodded.

"I'll be damned. Small world. If you see him before I do, tell him I owe him a beer—he trained one hell of a sniper."

The far-off thump of rotors drew their attention to the helicopter coming to land in the parking lot. Their handler waved from the copilot's seat.

When they were on board, the handler twisted around and shouted over the noise, "Alvarez, prep your weapon."

And because Cougar had just been through a year and a half of training, he obeyed without hesitation while the helicopter slowly lifted off. He was slipping the half-empty multi-purpose mag back in when it finally occurred to him to wonder what the hell he was about to be told to do. Would the Company dump him or Westen because of blown cover?

"Sanitize the vehicle."

He closed his eyes for a moment in relief, slid the door open and leaned out. Someone grabbed the waist of his jeans, and he looked back to see Westen bracing to catch his weight if he fell; he nodded his thanks. The shot would have been easier with a better pilot, but the drift of a helicopter wasn't very different from the bounce of a raft on water.

Exhale. Squeeze. Boom.

Reflexively, he darted out his hand to catch the empty casing. Westen pulled him back in, and he shut the door.

"Well," Westen said brightly. "Was it good for you?"

**.End.**


	4. Mojito

the story of how Mojito the ugly bobble-head became a fixture on Pooch's dashboard.

**warnings:** i was mostly thinking movie-verse when i did this one, but you could probably pretend it's comic-verse. mention of violence. language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus s*** and f***).

**pairing:** none/gen.

**timeline:** pre-movie.

**disclaimer:** the Losers belong to Detective Comics/Vertigo.

**notes:** 1) stuff in italic is Spanish. translations by MerianMoriarty. 2) it actually takes a surprisingly long time to go from "off" to "in the air" with big helicopters. 3) a blackhawk is a heavy transport chopper; they usually have a fifty cal machine gun mounted on each side for defense. 4) a molotov (cocktail) is a fire bomb made out of a bottle of liquor with a piece of cloth for a wick. when you throw it at something, the bottle breaks and the wick sets the alcohol alight. 5) RPG = rocket propelled grenade(s) (and their launchers). 6) juju is the spiritual power of an object or person. good juju is like good luck.

**spanish**  
>"perro" = "dog."<br>"es para tú" = "it's for you."  
>"para compañía" = "for company."<br>"puede que traerá buena suerte" = "maybe it will be good luck" (apparently there's like five ways to say 'maybe' in spanish; Moriarty assures me this one has the connotations i want).

* * *

><p><strong>Mojito<strong>

Being the wheelman wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

They tried to make it sound so cherry when they pitched it, a lot of talk of 'easiest job in the world' and 'hardly ever in the thick of it.' Clearly the guys recruiting for tactical motorist training had never met (or more likely ignored the existence of) people like the Losers.

Once upon a time, Pooch had been a normal guy, maybe a bit above-average when it came to flying, way above-average at driving…and yeah, he could pretty much drive and fix any vehicle known to man. He had taken the reassignment for three reasons: the pay was better, it was supposed to be a little more exciting than flying training jumps, and he'd smarted off to his direct superior one too many times.

On his first mission with Clay's team, he'd had to wait in the extraction chopper for five hours solid, all by himself, under radio silence. No one to talk to, nothing to do, and he had to be ready to spin up the rotors at a moment's notice. He damn near fell asleep.

At Clay's frantic yell, he started absently flicking the necessary switches to power up the Blackhawk. Then he'd caught sight of Clay and Roque pelting out of the jungle, and saw an army of pissed off rebels chasing after them with molotovs and homemade flame-throwers.

"Oh, shit!" he hissed, and hurriedly finished spinning up.

"Take her up!" Roque shouted as he leapt into the back.

"Just the two of you?" Pooch asked, twisting to look. "Where's the tech and the sniper?"

Clay jumped onto the side-mount gun and sprayed a few rounds at the charging lines of rebels. "Need a new one, and waiting at the secondary drop—take her the fuck up before we get blown to hell!"

An RPG shot whizzed in front of the cockpit, and Pooch needed no further urging.

"This is insane, this is insane, this is insane," he bit out, dipping the nose for maximum forward thrust.

"Nah, this is a typical Wednesday," said Roque.

When they were mostly out of visual contact with their ground pursuit, Pooch pulled them up a bit.

"Nice flying," said Clay. "Make it faster next time. I don't know what you're used to, Porteous—"

"Pooch," he corrected.

"Pooch?"

"Pooch, sir."

"Right. Don't know what you're used to, but the Losers don't stroll outta most places all casual-like. When we go, it's usually full-throttle to outrun the bullets."

"Starting to see that, sir."

"Good. Keep 'er low and steady, and as we swing past secondary drop you're gonna slow it up a few knots, but don't stop. Hear that, Cougar? We're comin' in hot."

Pooch spared a second to glance back at Clay. "Keep low and don't stop? What, is he gonna be jumpin' from a tree, all Rambo-style?"

Clay didn't say anything, but Roque chuckled.

Two minutes later, as he eased off on the forward thrust to make a pass at the coordinates indicated, he heard a thump of boots and looked back to see their sniper strapping into a seat, calm as could be.

"What the fuck?" Pooch yelped. "Seriously? Are you people outta your damn minds?"

"You're really gonna have to get over this skittish phase," Roque grunted.

"The Pooch is not skittish," Pooch muttered and adjusted their heading to take them back to their base camp.

After three solid months of the same, Pooch's major complaint became that he was expected to keep his vehicles functional after the kind of abuse Clay's 'rapid egress' tactics put them through. He still hated the fact that he was perfectly capable of infiltrating and shooting like the others but was relegated to 'keeping the car running.'

"Sometimes it's more important to have a fast pick-up," Clay told him the tenth or eleventh time he complained. "Another gun's great, but it does jack squat for us if we're already outnumbered and we need an out. What you gotta understand, son, is that they send us because they expect us to fail."

Pooch frowned, angry and frustrated and confused. "Sir?"

Clay just smiled. "They call us the Losers for a reason, Sergeant. The brass is always waiting for us to fuck up. If we do, they figure it's no great loss. If we don't, we make 'em look good. We're not an army; we're a precision tactical unit. We run away, it's what we do. Get it now?"

He thought he might, just a little. He nodded. "Sir."

The other three arrived on the tarmac, Roque and the new guy (their third tech replacement in as many months, mostly from Roque scaring them off) carrying a hefty case of equipment, Cougar with a rifle over each shoulder.

"Damn, boy, what you need two—" Pooch was starting to ask, when Cougar shoved something small into his hands. He looked down. It was a bobble-head. "Man, what is this ugly-ass—"

"_Perro_. _Es para tú_."

"What? Why in God's name would I want—"

Cougar gestured to the cockpit. "_Para compañía_. _Puede que traerá buena suerte_."

Pooch was taken aback. "Good luck, huh?"

The sniper nodded.

So Pooch sighed and climbed in, setting the bobble-head on the center console while he pulled on his flight helmet and tried not to think about how badly they were all being screwed over. As he ran through the pre-flight checklist, he kept glancing at the plastic chihuahua. "A pooch for the Pooch, huh?" he muttered, tapping it on the forehead. It nodded obligingly.

He had to admit that the wait was a little less lonely.

That was their first mission making it out without a scratch.

"Yo, Cougs, I think you might be right about this ugly little mofo," he said when they got back.

The sniper just grinned.

The next two missions with the hideous plastic dog on the console went just as well. Then they had a week's leave, and Pooch forgot to unpack the bobble-head before their next op.

They lost their third tech.

"It wasn't your fault," Clay said dully. "One gun wouldn't have made the difference, and your flying was good as ever."

"Yeah, well, Mojito's not gettin' left behind ever again," Pooch insisted.

Roque looked up from having his shoulder stitched. "You named that thing?"

Pooch glared. "Yes, Roque, I named that thing. Three times we had him along, three times none of your asses got shot or stabbed or dead. One time without him, and bam, we're down another computer nerd. I dunno if you maybe haven't noticed, but hackers don't grow on trees."

Clay considered it for a moment, shrugged. "You Losers need all the good juju you can get. Mojito stays."

**.End.**


End file.
